Let me tell you a sad tale of endless woe.
When I was little - maybe like 9 or 10, my sister Janine was making a Cheez Whiz sandwich. I noticed, with awe, that she could get a lot of Cheez Whiz on the knife at once - eliminating the need to go back to the jar over and over to maximize the fake-cheesiness on her bread. As a clumsy, sausage-fingered kid, I was unable to perform such a wonderful task on my own sandwich.
So, I asked Janine how she did it. Her reply? "That's the Cheez Whiz secret. You don't get to know that until you're 12".
Birthdays came and went... every year, I counted down the years left until I too could spread orange oil-based substances like a pro. This was better than waiting until 14 to get a learner's permit, better than 18 to vote, better than 60 to get senior's discounts. I was going to be the Cheez Whiz master!
The day finally came, March 11, 1988. This would be the day I could finally learn the secret - a bit of family tradition passed down to each new generation of Babowals on their 12th birthday. I asked my sister, with bated breath, what the secret was.
TURNS OUT THERE'S NO CHEEZ WHIZ SECRET!
I guess when you're older, your hands work better. Thanks Janine for ruining my childhood. That was the day I left the innocence of the child behind and learned that the world deals out disappointments in spades.
